Standing Still
by astudyinotters
Summary: John was considered one of the lucky ones. At just seventeen, he had two years and seven months left until he meets his Soulmate. Sherlock was considered one of the broken ones. Ever since he was born, his Clock had counted up instead of down. Two men, one broken, one breaking, find their places within a world where everyone knows the exact moment they meet their Soulmate.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, all! Sorry it's been such a long time. Real life has been pretty hectic recently, and I only have internet capabilities while I'm at work. My 30 Shades of Sherlock project is currently on hiatus until I'm done with my new project Standing Still. As you may have figured, this is my NaNoWriMo project for 2014. While my posting will be sporatic at best, I'll do my best to have the first installment of my Standing Still series finished by the end of November. That being said, these chapters are generally unedited, non-beta'd, and definitely not brit-picked. The revision process will commence starting in December, and hopefully a better product will make its way out sometime in the spring. Sorry for the lengthy AN, dear readers. Now, without further ado, I present the first chapter of Standing Still!**

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><p>John was always considered one of the lucky ones. At just seventeen, he had two years, seven months, and fourteen days left until he'd meet his Soulmate.<p>

Soulmate. That word had been tossed around in everyday conversation for longer than John could remember. One of his first memories was watching wide-eyed as his mum asked the post-man about the little, green Clock embedded in his wrist, sparking a long conversation about Soulmates, and Destiny, and a whole lot of other words that hadn't made sense to five-year-old John. Blearily, he'd ended up dozing for an hour on the couch while his mum had invited the post-man in, served him tea and biscuits, and listened as he'd talked through all his nervous energy.

Now that he was older, John not only understood the words and phrases associated with Soulmates and Clocks, but he had also memorized his mother's speech. He knew, after countless conversations with strangers about it, that his mother's eyes would light up with joy whenever she saw a Clock that was nearing zero. He knew just how her mouth would pull into a wide smile, twenty years of laugh lines softly framing her grin. Closing his eyes, he could even hear the way she spoke each of her words as she'd ask, "Excited about your Countdown, yet?" Whomever she was talking to would splutter for a brief moment, go quiet for a heartbeat, and then shyly respond with a small smile and quiet words, slowly easing into a conversation as the minutes passed.

Lately, John had been lucky enough to steal a few moments here and there to talk about his own Countdown. Just last week, he'd come home from school, leaned against the kitchen counter, and told his mother about his homeroom teacher's Pairing while licking blackberry pie filling from his fingers. When he'd finished his story, his mum had laughed, her head falling back as flour-covered hands left streaks of white across her apron. "Not all Pairings are perfect, Johnny," she'd said, reaching out a finger to nudge the tip of his nose fondly. "But all that matters is that you've found your Soulmate. It's like the rest of the world ceases to exist." John had just smiled, wiped the flour from his nose, and retreated to his room to slog through a mountain of homework.

His professors seemed fond of giving their students hours upon hours of homework every night. If it wasn't a paper, it was a project or presentation. Sometimes, it was all three. Every afternoon when he'd returned home from school, John had locked himself in his room, sat down at the small, well-worn desk he'd gotten second hand from Harry, and had diligently worked his way through his assignments in half the time it took his classmates. What John called hard work and persistence, his classmates and professors called luck and intelligence. Whatever it was, it earned him high marks on all his midterms, praise from his peers, and scholarship pamphlets in the mail.

John was always considered one of the lucky ones, one of those special people who had their lives just fall into place for them without a lick of effort. He'd meet his Soulmate young, get married, and get a good education. Then a good job would plop itself in his lap, and he'd have a house with a white picket fence and two children to run around in the yard, all because he was lucky. Nobody ever imagined that John would have a different future, that his luck would run out.

Everything stopped on a Tuesday. It was a bright, sunny day complete with singing birds, and a gentle breeze. It was the kind of day that people wrote poems and songs about, the kind of day that led to a promotion at work or good marks at school; the kind of day that nothing could go wrong on. John was sitting in the middle of his Biology class, scribbling down notes as his professor rattled on about the skeletal system when his left wrist began to itch. Frowning, John paused, scratched at the skin briefly around his Clock, and continued taking notes, doing his best to keep up with the lecture.

The itching didn't stop. As time progressed, the sensation intensified, and no matter how much he scratched at his skin, nothing seemed to soothe John's flesh. After five minutes, it felt as if his epidermis was crawling. The skin was red and puffy, irritated and swollen in a ridge around his Clock. In a moment of annoyance, John wondered if he could rip the embedded machine from his flesh. Closing his eyes, John could see it, the image burned vibrantly against the back of his eyelids.

He'd seen it happen before, once, when he was fifteen. A boy with a broken Clock two years his junior had carved the plastic and metal bit from his wrist with a razor blade during lunch. The boy's blood had gotten everywhere, flowing in thick rivulets from the small crater his Clock had left behind. His flesh was torn and ragged, the edges stained dark and flecked with spots of plastic and sinew. He'd smiled then, his eyes manic and gleeful as he'd dropped the Clock to blot the excess blood away. The school nurse rushed in and pulled him to a waiting ambulance, staring horrified as the small boy had laughed. A small skin graft had patched up the hole, and two days later, the boy was back in school and sitting his exams. The only evidence that anything had happened were the thick, white bandages wrapped around his left wrist. Nobody ever talked about James' blackened Clock, nor the little stunt he'd pulled.

Shaking his head to clear the memory from his mind, John absentmindedly wondered what it would be like to be Clockless, to never have to worry about finding his Soulmate, or getting his annual checkup, or the blasted itch that never seemed to go away. There would be no more crawling skin, no more people staring at his Clock in the supermarket, no more "Lucky John Watson". Sighing, John kept scratching lightly at his wrist. As much as he hated his Clock sometimes, the desire to meet his Soulmate always prevented him from acting on the gruesome fantasy.

The lecture continued, and every few words, John would stop his scribbling to scrape at his wrist. When he broke skin some ten minutes later, he'd looked at the red smears across his notes and the red caked under his fingernails and clenched his jaw. Taking a shaky breath, John shoved his bloody wrist under the table, picked up his pencil, and did his best to quell the mild glee that mixed with the mild horror at the sight of three, thin lines of reddened skin raised around his Clock.

Moments later, John's class was dismissed. He hurried into the bathroom and thoroughly washed the scrapes and the blood from his hands. With a groan, he patted his skin dry and angrily tossed the soiled paper towels away. While the itching had mostly gone away, his skin had now taken to burning. Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself that it was fine; it was all fine.

Three hours later, John had to admit that everything was not fine. The mild burning sensation that had been centered around his Clock had grown and spread, slowly trickling it's way up his arm into his torso, finally spreading down his legs to engulf his entire body in heat. His skin was on fire, little, yellow blisters bubbling up painfully up and down his flesh. In minutes, his forearm was covered, and John could feel every single mark as they burned and blistered across his body. Blinking blearily, John raised an unblemished hand to rub at his eyes. The room swam around him, his classmates reduced to nothing more than masses of floating, swirling, colors. Moments later, John felt the the fire creep into his lungs and groaned as his alveoli caught fire and the oxygen that had filled his lungs turned to smoke. His chest heaving for air, John faintly registered that he was swaying dangerously just before he hit the ground.

His eyes dropped to stare in disbelief at his Clock. The rest of the world ceased to exist, and John found himself easily ignoring the way his classmates huddled around him, ignoring the way his professor had screamed his name, ignoring everything except for the thick, black tar that oozed out in thick rivulets from behind his Clock. Closing his eyes, John recalled the image of James once more, watching as his face twisted and contorted with maniacal laughter, his bloody Clock clutched in his right hand. Slowly, the image faded, the blood and gore twisting into dark tendrils of wispy smoke.

John woke up a few hours later and was greeted by an overwhelming amount of white. Sighing, John ran a hand through his hair, grimacing as the throbbing in his head made it's presence known, and hauled himself from the cot he'd been laying on. Groaning as the world seemed to pitch and tilt around him, John leaned heavily against the wall and attempted to catch his breath. He knew, based on a few past experiences, that he was in the student medical center. Finally, when he felt steady enough, he started shuffling his way to the front, hoping to catch the attention of a passing attendant.

"Mr. Watson!" a startled nurse exclaimed as he tripped into a bucket. "You should be laying down!"

John held up a hand and reached for the bucket as a wave of nausea threatened to empty his stomach. "If I'm going to be miserable, I want to do it at home," he grumbled, making his way to slump in a chair by the door.

The nurse nodded and scurried around behind the clinic's desk, her clumsy hands knocking the phone off the hook. Fifteen minutes later, John was being loaded into his mother's car, a small rubbish bin situated between his knees.

"What happened, John?" his mother asked, looking at him in the rear-view mirror. "Perfect attendance for years, and suddenly a sick day out of nowhere. What's wrong?"

John looked out the window and tightened his grip on the rubbish bin, watching as his knuckles slowly turned white. "I don't know," he admitted after a moment, allowing his head to thunk loudly against the cool window. "One minute I was fine, and then the next, it felt like I was on fire."

His mother was silent for a few moments, chewing the inside of her cheek as she chose her words. "Johnny, did you take something?" she asked hesitantly, shuffling her hands on the steering wheel.

John shook his head slowly. "No. Nothing. It came out of nowhere," he replied. "All I know is that I don't want it to happen again."

His mother nodded once and exhaled loudly. Mercifully, the rest of the ride home was silent.

When the car finally stopped, John's mother helped him inside. Carefully, she guided him to his bedroom and tucked him in, making sure he had everything he needed before leaving him to sleep. She had managed to take a quick glance at her son's arm before she had left, and the sight of his burnt and blackened skin was enough to make her stomach heave. Never before had she ever seen anything like the markings on John's arm, nor had she heard a whisper about anything like it. A frown marring her gentle face, Susan Watson quietly left her son's room to put the kettle on. A cup of tea would help, she thought as her hands methodically readied her tea mug. A cup of tea always helped.


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, I know these installments are short. Everything will be fixed when my editing starts in December. Without further ado, here's the second small bit for Standing Still. **

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><p>Every four hours during the next few days, Susan woke her son like clockwork, carefully propping him up to guide a few spoonfuls of bland broth into John's mostly unresponsive mouth. Most times, he would blink unseeingly at her for a few moments, swallow a quarter cup of liquid, and then fall back into a fitful sleep. Sometimes, words tumbled, uncensored, from between his parched lips. On the rare occasions John was able to recognize her, Susan would follow the broth with a small handful of ice chips and a cool cloth pressed to John's forehead. Sighing, Susan resigned herself to waiting while whatever plagued John to run its course.<p>

It took three days for the fire to work its way through John's body. Three days of fever, and cold sweats, and delirium. Three days of shivering, and vomiting, and screaming himself hoarse as he thrashed amongst his sheets. Three days of half-hazard bandage changing as the blisters popped, and oozed, and blackened, layer upon layer of skin peeling away to reveal a fresh canvas, still pink and irritated.

John finally woke on his own as the sun was setting on the third day. With a groan, he slowly hauled himself from his bed and made a beeline for the loo. Staring into the the mirror, John was loathe to admit that he hardly recognized the tired, blonde boy staring back at him. Sighing softly, John turned on his shower and waited for the water to heat. His whole body ached, and he knew he'd have to catalog and tend to his injuries. But first, he knew it would be best to be clean.

John took his time in the shower, soapy, sturdy fingers gently easing the knots from stiff muscles as he worked away the layers of sweat, dirt, and grime from when he was ill. When he emerged from his shower some twenty minutes later, John felt like a new man. After examining every inch of his body, save for his left forearm, he was happy to note that most of his soreness hadn't come from any open wounds. Humming softly, John deftly tied his towel around his hips before bending over and digging the first aid kit out from underneath the sink.

The burn cream was laying at the top, nestled between a half-empty box of gauze patches and a new package of medical tape. Shifting his weight, John uncapped the cream and started rubbing it into his skin, working diligently to cover every square inch of skin from his elbow to his wrist. Once he was satisfied that all the cream was absorbed, John dumped a few packages of gauze out onto the bathroom vanity and placed them one by one over the few patches of skin that were still peeling. After placing the second patch, he started with the tape, winding it around his arm methodically to secure the dressings in place. Once he neared his wrist, John stopped, cut off the tape, and smoothed out the bandages before leaning closer to check the skin around his Clock more thoroughly, remembering the thick, black, substance that had oozed from behind it. It was strange to find that the delicate skin of his wrist had already healed over, the surface as smooth and unblemished as it had been before he'd fallen unconscious. Smiling contentedly, John reached to put away the first aid kit when his eyes finally roamed over his Clock. Two years, seven months, and fourteen days, the same as it had been before, well, whatever had happened. Thinking nothing of it, John retreated to his bedroom to dress before he padded downstairs to the kitchen for some tea and toast.

John greeted his mother with a smile and a kiss on the cheek before tucking into his breakfast with gusto. Susan smiled as she watched John eat, grateful that he was finally awake. When his plate was empty and his cup drained, John sat back, folded his arms behind his head, and watched the clock above the oven tick away minute after minute. After a few, peaceful moments, John rose and moved to the living room to sit in near silence with his mother as she knitted in her chair, the television making muted noises every now and then as they waited for the nightly news broadcast.

It only took John a few minutes to realize that something wasn't quite right. The programs weren't what they should have been for a Tuesday night, a campy war movie had been substituted for the usual game show. Frowning, John shifted in his seat and stared pointedly at the flickering screen, acting as if his glare would be enough to return them to the regularly scheduled programming.

John remained quiet until the news started, the evening anchors smiling fakely behind layers of caked on makeup as they rattled out story after story. When the week's weather forecast popped up on the screen, John froze. There, in the "Tomorrow" slot where Wednesday should be, Saturday's sunny prediction stared at him. He gaped at the screen for a few moments before snapping to stare at his mother. "Mum?" he croaked, pausing to clear his throat. "What day is it?"

Susan's brows furrowed as she finished her row, her hands dropping her current project to rest safely in her lap. "It's Friday night, Johnny," she replied, turning to look at him.

"Friday?" he parroted, face paling drastically. "You're sure it's not Tuesday, still?"

Slowly, Susan nodded her head. "Is something wrong, John?" she asked. "You look like you're going to be sick."

John squeaked out a mangled affirmation before bolting to the bathroom to upend his dinner violently into the toilet. When his stomach stopped heaving, John leaned his forehead against the wall, his eyes flicking down to stare at his wrist. There, in the green piece of plastic, his Countdown looked back at him, the numbers unmoving. Two years. Seven months. Fourteen days. Exactly as it had been on Tuesday. Shaking his head, John babbled nonsense under his breath as he stared unblinkingly at his Clock, urging the black digits to change and move and decrease like they should. Hours passed, and John still stared at his Clock, the numbers still the same, still unchanged. Frozen, his mind supplied, his Countdown was frozen.

Groaning, John finally hauled himself up off the cold linoleum, washed his face, and brushed his teeth before trudging down the hallway to his bedroom. It was only when he was alone in the dark safety of his bed, did John allow himself to start working through the information he'd subconsciously gathered.

He wasn't sure what he'd done to anger Destiny, but for some reason, John's luck had run out. Now, instead of bringing John joy or a sense of pride, his Clock would only attract pity and shame. Gone were the days of comparing Countdowns, the activity replaced by endless lies, evasion, and bitterness. Whether he liked it or not, John's Clock was broken, and he knew the sooner he accepted that fact, the sooner he could get over the whole ordeal. Never in his life had John thought that his Clock would break, but as he closed his eyes and buried his head deeper into his pillows, John breathed out the words. Two years. Seven months. Fourteen days. John was frozen now, John was broken now, John was boring and ordinary now. John was standing still.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, when John made his way downstairs, he found his breakfast already prepared and waiting for him at the kitchen table. Stiffly, he sat down and absentmindedly munched through his first piece of toast, his blank eyes hazily staring at the empty space in front of him.

Susan hovered in the doorway, silently watching as John slowly worked his way through his breakfast. When John picked up and bit into his third piece of toast, she approached the table and sat down in the chair opposite John.

"What happened?" she asked after a moment, reaching a hand out to nudge John's. She watched as her son slowly came back to himself, his eyes focusing on their joined hands.

"Nothing happened," John replied, pulling his hand out from his mother's touch. "What makes you think that something happened?"

The ends of Susan's mouth pulled down as her eyebrows furrowed. She kept her hand where it was, relaxing her fingers against the well-worn wood.. "You just ate three pieces of toast," she stated, staring intently at John's now empty plate.

"I guess I was hungry," John said, swallowing thickly. "Just because I ate three pieces of toast doesn't mean that something is wrong, mum."

Susan nodded. "I know, sweetie, but you just ate three pieces of toast with orange marmalade. And drank your coffee, not tea, that was fixed up with far more milk and sugar than you can stand. So something must have happened to make you not notice the food you just ate."

John sat still under his mother's unwavering gaze, an embarrassed heat blooming across his cheeks and warming the tips of his ears. "I don't really want to talk about it," he murmured, staring down at his lap.

"Want to or not," Susan started, pausing to lean closer to her son, "we're going to talk about it, John. Four days ago I got a call from your school nurse. She told me you had passed out and that you needed someone to come get you. So I came straight from work and found you laying in the sick bay, unconscious, with a burnt arm so black I thought someone had smeared pen ink all over you."

John fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat and mumbled something under his breath, the words vanishing under his mother's intense gaze.

"And then, I brought you home and hauled you to your bed where you slept for three days. I had to wake you up, spoon soup into your mouth, and take care of you since you didn't have the strength or ability to do it yourself."

John cleared his throat and looked around the room, his eyes flicking to everything he could focus on that wasn't his mother.

"When you finally wake up, three days later, you seem to have a perfectly normal afternoon until you learn what the date is. You spent half the night in that bathroom- I know, I heard you throwing up, John- and now you've just eaten a breakfast you normally can't stand without batting an eye. So I'll ask you again, John. What happened?"

John opened and closed his mouth a few times, his carefully formulated reply dead on his tongue. Finally, after a few attempts at speaking, John raised his still-bandaged arm, laid it on the table, and turned it so that his Clock was facing up clearly within his mother's range of sight. "Two years, seven months, fourteen days," he whispered, his attention fading out somewhere between the oven and the refrigerator.

Susan leaned forward and gingerly pulled John's hand into her own, cradling his wrist as she looked. She could see the edges of his still-healing skin peeking out from under the edge of the bandage. Nodding minutely, she allowed her gaze to travel down the length of John's healed wrist, stopping when she got to his Clock. Just as it said, the numbers revealed just under three years left until they hit zero. She sat there in silence with her son, watching his Clock as they breathed in tandem. After a minute, Susan's breath hitched as she realized that John's Countdown hadn't changed. Reverently, she rubbed a thumb over the slightly scratched surface, closed her eyes, and allowed herself to remember the first time John had shown an interest in the little, green, plastic box.

John was six the first time he actively noticed the Clocks. He had been left to sit on the countertop beside his mother while she put together a birthday cake for Harry. There, amongst the flour, eggs, and sugar, John had seen the thin, red line dart across the crease of her wrist. He'd stared, unbridled, for ages, eagerly waiting to catch another glance at the jagged, red line.

"Do I have something on my hands, Johnny?" she'd asked, flexing her fingers and twisting her palms.

John had jumped, knocking his heels loudly against the lower cabinets. "N-no!" he'd stuttered, ears burning with embarrassment as he chewed on his lower lip. "Just the red line that's always been there. Why don't I have one?"

Susan smiled fondly at her son and nudged his nose. "Let me finish Harry's cake, and then I'll tell you about the Clocks, okay?" she asked.

John just nodded and went back to silently watching as his mother worked. Twenty minutes later, Harry's cake was moved to the fridge and Susan was loading their plain, wooden tea tray with all of John's favorite things. Gently, she guided her son to the living room, poured hot tea into two slightly chipped mugs, and settled into the lumpy, floral armchair that had belonged to her mother. Smiling, she watched as John fixed up his own cup, the liquid sloshing around inside more hot milk and sugar than tea.

"Will you tell me about the Clocks now?" John asked, peering up at his mother from behind the mug clutched tightly between his stubby fingers.

After taking a sip of her own tea, Susan nodded. She set her cup back down on the tea tray and offered her upturned wrist to John, watching as his eyes widened and snapped back to her Heartmark. "when everyone is born, they all have a Clock in their wrist," she began. "And each Clock counts down the amount of time before its owner meets their Soulmate."

John looked puzzled and dropped his gaze to inspect his own Clock. "I have a Soulmate?" he asked, his tiny voice barely audible, his words muffled with awe.

Susan nodded again and reached forward, taking John's hands in her own. "Yes," she replied, turning his wrists up to swipe a warm thumb over his Clock. "Absolutely, John. Everyone has a Soulmate."

John had gaped slack-jawed at the bulky, green rectangle nestled in the bend of his wrist. "And my Clock tells me how much time is left before I meet them?" he asked.

Susan chuckled and looked closely at John's Clock. "That's right, dear. You're doing so well at remembering. Now, what does your Clock say?"

John tilted his head to the side and concentrated hard, his tongue peeking out from between his thin lips. "Thirteen years, four months, and six days," he answered after a moment. "That seems like forever away!"

"I know, Johnny," Susan commented, releasing her son's hands to pick up her teacup once more. "But twenty is a very young age to meet your Soulmate. You're lucky, sweetheart. I had to wait until I was thirty-two before I met your father."

"And what happened then?" John asked, hastily grabbing his teacup to mirror his mother's movements.

Susan closed her eyes and went still for a moment, lost to a memory from ten years ago. "I met your dad and my Clock fell off. He bent down, picked it up, and handed it to me," she replied. "As soon as we touched, I got my Heartmark."

"What's a Heartmark?" John asked, eyes flickering to where his mother's wrist had been turned red.

"It's a very special mark shared between two Soulmates," Susan sighed. "No two are alike. Do you remember when we went to go see Grandad Watson in the hospital last month?"

John nodded.

"Well, he was hooked up to a machine that took pictures of his heartbeat so the doctors could see. Do you remember that?"

John nodded again, squirming restlessly in his seat.

"Well, a Heartmark is a lot like that. It's a picture of your Soulmate's heartbeat, but you only get it once you meet."

John had furrowed his eyebrows then, his nose crinkling while he organized his thoughts. "That's cool, I guess. Can I go outside and play, now?" he asked.

Susan chuckled, leaned forward, and ruffled John's hair. "Finish your tea first, and then yes, you can go outside and play."

John beamed and quickly finished his tea, tipping his head back to drink the sweetened liquid as fast as he could manage. When his cup was empty, he placed it in the sink, pulled on his shoes and sweater, and kissed his mother's cheek before he ran out the door to roll around in the leaves.

Eleven years ago, Susan had hovered by the window and watched as John ran around and played, his cheeks growing redder as the hours faded with the sun. Now, Susan hovered by the same window and watched as John curled into himself on the couch. With a sigh, she draped an old, knitted, throw blanket over his lap, settled into her chair, and turned on the television. Hopefully, with a little bit of time, John would be okay.


	4. Chapter 4

**All right, lovelies. Here's chapter 4. I know this is a bigger chapter, but I didn't feel comfortable cutting it in half. I'd really like for all my updates to be around this size in the future, but we'll see. **

**Thank you to all who have reviewed so far! Each comment makes me smile, and inspires me to write more and update more often. You're all the best. :)**

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><p>By the time Monday rolled around, John was back in school. He floated through his day, gliding blankly from class to class. Mostly, his professors and classmates were content to let him be, giving John the space he didn't know he needed. Occasionally, he'd hear his name whispered in the hallways and feel eyes burning hot against the back of his neck, but he didn't pay much attention to it, choosing to soldier on through his day.<p>

He was grateful when lunch had passed without any remarks on his bandages from his friends. For the most part, he'd sat in his usual seat and forced down half of his ham and cheese sandwich while his friends talked about football, rugby, and their past weekend's shenanigans. It was nice, John mused, to still be treated normally even though his Clock had stopped. He knew, realistically, that the normal treatment wouldn't last; that eventually, the bandages wrapped around his forearm would have to come off, and then everyone would see. He knew he couldn't keep it a secret forever, but he was determined to keep his condition quiet as long as he could.

Tuesday was better. The more he spent time at school, the more he found he was able to concentrate on his lectures. By the time lunch rolled around, John's hand cramped from all the notes he'd taken and he actually felt hungry for the first time since he'd woken up.

He was halfway through his usual sandwich when his friends paused their conversation to turn and watch as a plain girl, dressed in a non-descript, dark hoodie ambled into the cafeteria and sat at one of the graffitied, back tables. No one went to join her.

"What's going on?" John asked, tilting his head towards the girl.

"Did you hear about her, mate?" his friend Mickey asked.

John shook his head.

Mickey looked both ways before he leaned across the table, gesturing for Jon to lean closer to hear his secret.

Curious, John mimicked his friend's actions and leaned in, his head cocked to the side. "What?" he prompted.

"Have you heard of Leah?" Mickey asked.

John shook his head. "No. Should I have heard of her?"

Mickey licked his lips nervously and hastily stole a look at her over his shoulder. "Dude, Janine got a good look at her Clock the other day," he whispered.

John rolled his eyes. "And? That doesn't explain why I should know who she is."

Mickey chuckled. "She's got _years_ left, mate?"

John bit his tongue. "So do you," he managed, after a moment.

Mickey glanced at her over his shoulder again. "Not like her though, John. Janine said she had _twenty_ years left. Can you imagine that? Going another twenty, bleeding years without meeting your Soulmate?"

John froze and swallowed hard around the lump that grew in his throat.

"You're lucky, mate, only two years and some odd time left. The rest of us have to wait a fair bit longer. But not like that Leah bird. Poor girl will be in her forties by the time she's married, I reckon. But then again, with a face like that, maybe she needs all that time to pretty herself up-"

"Don't talk about her that way," John interrupted, his eyes fixed pointedly at the table before him.

"Cor, mate, what did you say?" Mickey asked, tilting his head to the side.

"I said," John hissed, "Don't talk about her that way. That's beyond not good, _mate_."

Mickey stared incredulously at John and sat back in his seat. "Jesus, John. Who pissed in your morning tea? It's just a bit of conversation, there's no need to get worked up over it."

John shook his head. "No," he murmured, his voice dropping low and quiet. "No. It is something to get worked up about. Just because one girl has a lot of time left on her Countdown does not mean she's signed up to be teased and pitied nonstop for the next twenty years."

Mickey's jaw fell open then, his eyes widening at John's words. "Christ, okay. Calm down, John, it was only a bit of fun," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

"Right," John muttered, turning to wrap and pack away the last half of his sandwich. "Just a bit of fun."

The rest of the day found John tired and grumpy. He sat rigidly through the remainder of his lessons, and snapped more words than he spoke. His conversation with Mickey had only solidified his worries. That night, as he replayed the dialogue in his head, John wondered how his friends would treat him when they found out his Countdown had frozen. Squeezing his eyes shut, he decided that he didn't want to know.

While making his way through the hallways on Wednesday, John caught a few of his classmates staring at him, their gaze prickling uncomfortably as they stared openly at his bandages. Attempting to brush it off, John made his way to his first class, sliding in to his desk with a smile to the boy who usually sat next to him. The boy didn't say anything to acknowledge him, but his eyes flickered a path over the creases in John's bandages. His smile faltering, John pulled out his materials for the course and prepared to take notes, revelling in the normalcy of the action. In his head, he silently prayed to every deity he could think of that nobody knew about his Clock.

By the time John was released for lunch, he was forced to come to the conclusion that his secret was no longer a secret. With his head ducked, John made his way to his usual table and set his backpack down with a huff. Hastily, he dug out his lunch bag and bit into his apple. His friends stared at him with wide eyes, their expressions expectant, their unasked questions nearly tangible in the air between them.

"What?" John snapped, lowering his apple. "Everybody's been acting weird today, and I want to know what is going on. So somebody better spill."

His friends exchanged wary glances, as if mentally drawing straws to decide who was going to break the news. "Is it true?" Mickey eventually asked, leaning in close to John, much like he'd done the day before.

"Is what true?" John sighed, his shoulders slumping.

Mickey cast a wary look over his shoulder and leaned closer to John. "You know," he murmured, pausing to gesture at John's bandaged forearm. "Did your Clock really stop? Everyone's talking about it, but no one knows if it's true or not. Janine swore she heard Harry telling Clara, but you know how she's always looking to stir up some drama and gossip."

John clenched his jaw shut, grabbed his backpack, and silently bolted from the table, chucking his half-eaten apple n a rubbish bin as he went. The blood boiled in his veins, and it took every iota of self control that he had to refrain from attacking the impossibly small first year that gawked at him, his face half-hidden behind the metal door of his locker.

"What are you staring at?" John growled, glaring at the smaller boy. His only reply was a startled squeak as the boy ran away down the corridor, leaving his locker door wide open. Sighing, John counted his steps as he walked up to close the first year's locker. Digging out his phone, John made his way through the halls to head towards the parking lot exit. He angrily punched in his sister's number and mashed the call button, mumbling colorful obscenities under his breath as his phone rang out.

"John, what do you want? I'm still in class," Harry hissed.

"We need to talk," he growled. "Meet me at your car. Now."

"I can't just skip class, John. If that's all you need, it can wait until we get home tonight," Harry replied.

"No," John spat. "You and I are going to talk right now, or Destiny help me, I will come and drag you from your class and I'll make a bloody colossal scene."

Harry was quiet for a moment, as if pondering which situation was worse.

"Harry," John warned. "I mean it.

Harry sighed. "Tell me again why we have to talk now?" she whined. The other side of the line was eerily quiet, and Harry couldn't help but shiver.

"Everyone knows," John replied after a moment, his voice deceptively calm. "And everyone is saying that they heard it from _you_."

Harry froze at her brother's words. "John, I didn-"

"Your car, Harry. Now. I mean it," John growled, throwing open the doors to the school, the loud bang punctuating his words.

Standing outside her classroom with her phone still pressed to her ear, Harry nodded slowly, her eyes blown wide. Shakily, she shuffled towards the school's parking lot, her feet and legs working on autopilot.

John was the calm before the storm. To those who had no idea, he appeared kind and docile, and for the most part, John _was_. However, if one knew how to look, John was also anger, fury, and rage, the power and raw emotion constantly simmering underneath his skin. It was easy for John to slap on a mask when he was angry, for John to wave a hand and say everything was fine. But now, Harry knew that John's mask had shattered, leaving him exposed, and vulnerable, and afraid.

Swallowing thickly, she exited the building and headed towards her car. She saw John long before he saw her, cautiously taking steps towards him, as if afraid he'd snap and lash out like their father had. Harry watched intently as she continued to approach John, noting the way his fists clenched and unclenched rhythmically at his sides. His knuckles popped and his shoulders tensed with a forced intake of breath and Harry saw it; saw the boiling rage and rampant anger and, for the first time in a long time, she felt fear.

Harry held her breath as John turned to look at her, his eyes dark with fury, his mouth a thin line cutting into his face. Cringing, Harry did her best to prepare herself. There was no way this conversation would be gentle and composed, as so many of their talks were. This was going to be a full blown explosion, and she was the one to blame for it.

They stood there, for what felt like ages, just watching each other stand. "John?" Harry breathed, reaching out a hand to rest it on her brother's shoulder.

Frowning, John brushed her hand away. "Why?" he asked, the word whizzing through the air to cut at Harry. "Why?" he repeated, crossing his arms.

"John, I-"

"Just answer the damn question, Harry. Why?"

Harry was still for a moment, her eyes nervously darting up and down John's form. "I only told Clara," she said. "I thought we were alone, John. You can't blame me for this."

John snorted and twitched the corner of his mouth up into a cold smile. "I can't blame you for this?" he asked, dropping his hands to gesture at the school. "Harry, everyone knows. And it's not because I blabbed. Who else could have done it besides you?"

Harry's mouth opened and closed a few times, her words failing at the murderous look on her brother's face. "I never meant for anything to happen. I just thought Clara should know since she's family."

John chuckled and shook his head. "Well, Harry. Look around and see what you _didn't mean to do_. The whole school is treating me like a bloody charity case, and my friends won't even meet my eyes. People I don't know are talking about me behind my back, and even my professors treat me like I'm some broken toy that can't be fixed."

Harry hung her head in shame.

"You've gone and spoiled everything by _not thinking_, Harry, so tell me, are you happy now?"

Harry shook her head.

John huffed and crossed his arms again. "Well, you should be. Give it a week and people will have forgotten about me completely. I can't stand in your spotlight anymore, can I? Not that I ever was, but that's how you saw it, wasn't it? Me stealing the attention that should be given to you?"

Harry gaped at her brother. "John, that's not-"

"Don't you dare say that," John said, "when we both know that it's not true."

"It's not-"

"It is, and you know it. Deep down, you do, Harry. I remember what it was like after you found your Soulmate. You glowed when people paid extra attention to you, and you got jealous when you thought that the attention was taken away. I saw it, and so did Mom and Clara."

Harry stayed still.

"But what you didn't realize is that the attention never went away like you thought it did. People still look at you and Clara in awe whenever they see you together. It's unheard of for anyone to find their Soulmates as young as you two have, and people absolutely adore seeing proof that it can happen. So while everyone isn't congratulating you to your face, they're practically hero worshipping you behind your back instead. Nobody worries about you, Harry, because they know your future is set."

"Your future is set, too," Harry murmured, chancing a look up at John.

John just smiled. "What future, Harry?" he asked. "I can't afford to go to college, and now, my Clock is stopped. I won't have a career, and I won't have a Soulmate. So I'll just stay here, find a factory job, and work until I'm old and grey and alone."

"Like hell you will," Harry spat, suddenly standing up straight.

John took a miniscule step back. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"I said," Harry repeated, "like hell you will."

John's eyebrows rose and he remained silent.

"I know you, John. And there's no way that you'll allow a lack of money or a broken Clock get in your way. You're stronger than that, so don't pretend for an instant that you're gonna be one of the dime a dozen factory workers that stay here and regret not doing something grander. So do us both a favor and close your eyes."

"Why should I do anything you say?" John countered, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Just, please? I won't ask anything else from you. Close your eyes and remember what happened when Clara and I found each other," Harry said.

John continued to glower at his sister for a long moment. Then, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and he remembered.

It had happened three years ago, while they were in the middle of a shopping mall. John had decided to go along with his sister at the last minute, in a feeble attempt to avoid cleaning his room. Instead, he'd been coerced to lugging Harry's bags around and paying for lunch. As they sat down at an empty table, their trays loaded with food, John admitted he was tired.

Sluggishly, he worked through his sandwich and chips, pausing every few bites to gulp a few mouthfuls of soda. Harry stared at him and picked at her own chips, moving them around on her plate in lieu of eating them.

"What's wrong?" John asked, lowering his sandwich to take a good look at his sister.

Harry shrugged her shoulders and frowned. "I don't know," she admitted, pushing her half-full tray aside. "I just feel like my skin is crawling; like something is going to happen."

John nodded. "Eat your chips, Harry," he said, pausing to take a bite from his own plate. "It's probably nothing. Maybe you're just tired from all the shopping. I know I am."

Silently, Harry rubbed her wrists, turned back to her tray, and resumed pushing her food around her plate.

After twenty minutes of watching Harry avoid her lunch, John had had enough. Frustrated, he rose from his seat, snatched her tray, and went to dispose of their trash. When he came back a few minutes later, there was a dark-haired girl hovering beside his sister. Clenching his jaw, John stood back and decided to watch. No use scaring off someone his sister might like.

She seemed nice, John admitted, from a distance. She had a heart-shaped face, semi-tanned skin, and kind, green eyes. From what John could see, the girl's expression seemed genuinely caring, and when she leaned forward to blanket her hand over Harry's, John found that for some reason, he didn't mind.

He watched as they talked for a few minutes, smiling softly to himself as he saw Harry laugh. It was as if her entire attitude had changed, and even if it lasted for only a few, short moments, he was glad that she was no longer apprehensive about some impending fiasco. When he'd received a few dirty looks from other patrons for hovering around the rubbish bins, John slowly meandered back to their table and cleared his throat as he stood beside the dark-haired girl.

"What's going on here?" he asked, his voice breaking half-way through.

The dark-haired girl looked startled at John's appearance, and Harry looked as if she'd forgotten that her brother existed in the first place. "John? What are you doing?" Harry hissed, turning to glare at him.

John raised his hands as if surrendering. "I'm carrying your bags and buying you lunch, remember? But if you'd rather I go, I can certainly leave everything with you and catch a bus or something."

Harry stared at him for a few minutes as if he was a complex puzzle before waving a hand at him. "Just wander around for a while, okay? I'll find you when I'm done here," she said, dismissing him.

With a heavy sigh, John turned and did as his sister asked. He wandered around the edge of the food court, not straying out of earshot. Most of their conversation swirled around him, waves of sound washing over his head. He paid attention to the tone and influxion of their words, but what they actually said, John couldn't remember.

Three laps around the perimeter later, Harry squeaked in surprise. Worried, John's attention immediately snapped back to his older sister. He froze in place and watched like a hawk as the dark-haired girl pressed something small into Harry's hands.

"How?" Harry had asked after a moment, her eyes fixated on the object cradled in her hands. "I still had _years_ left."

The other girl smiled softly and raised Harry's hands to gently press a kiss to the back of her knuckles. "Not all Clocks start with the right amount of time. Sometimes, Destiny changes her mind and pushes things to happen faster or slower. She brought us together early, so let's celebrate that, ok? Let's be happy that we found each other when we did."

Harry smiled and nodded, allowing the dark-haired girl to pull her to her feet. "I'm Harry," she said.

"Clara," the other girl replied. She was smiling so brightly that John thought that she might spontaneously start giving off rays of light. When they kissed for the first time, John finally realised what had just happened. Smiling softly to himself, John turned and walked off to give his sister some real time alone with her Soulmate.

They'd found him, some hours later, in a corner of the bookstore, a medical text open on his lap. Harry had laughed, introduced him to Clara, and then herded him towards her car. All of Harry's purchases sat in the backseat with John, but as he watched his sister interact with her Soulmate from behind countless bag handles, John had to admit that he didn't mind being cramped. He was happy for Harry, ecstatic even. She'd been waiting to meet her other half for a long time, and she was right. Destiny did have a way with the Clocks. Taking a minute to look down at his own Clock, John hoped that Destiny had someone truly spectacular picked out for him.

Now, still standing outside the school, John opened his eyes, took a shaky breath and stared at his sister. "You can't possibly believe that Destiny has someone planned for me now, Harry," he said, shaking his head. "My Clock has stopped. It's broken. I'll never meet them. Not now."

Harry smiled sadly at him and took another step towards him, reaching a hand for his shoulder once more. "I think Destiny has someone so amazing picked out for you that you're not ready to handle them yet," she said, pulling her brother into a hug. "Please, John, no matter how bleak it seems, don't give up hope, okay? There's no way someone as kind and compassionate as you will end up alone. You'd have to be stupid to think you would."

John chuckled softly and let his sister hug him. "I'll try, Harry," he said. "I can promise you that I'll try."


	5. Chapter 5

**Well, if you haven't figured it out by now, there's no way this is going to be finished at the end of November. I came down with the flu about two weeks ago, and I wasn't able to focus on anything for a good while. While I'm feeling better, I'm still not 100%. I'm hoping to have this done by the end of December, but I have some other things to work on as well, so bear with me as I juggle a few projects. Thanks again to all who have left reviews. It really does make my day brighter when I read them. :)**

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><p>A week later, John was loathe to admit that he had been wrong; all of his friends and peers hadn't forgotten about him like he'd hoped. Taking a deep breath, John checked to make sure his shirt cuffs were intact and neatly buttoned. Finally happy with his appearance, he made his way to his first class and narrowly missed being tossed into the rubbish skip behind the cafeteria. Ever since his news had been leaked, John had found himself the target of every hushed whisper, every set of eyes, and every pointed finger. He sighed heavily as he slid into his usual seat and went about readying himself for yet another day spent listening to his professors blather on and on about one subject or another.<p>

The surprisingly interesting lecture about proper dissection technique was interrupted twenty-seven minutes in by a mousy looking girl tripping her way into the classroom. Her dull, brown hair was tied away from her chalky face to hang in a limp ponytail at the back of her head. She quietly squeaked a message to the professor and retreated to hover by the door.

"John Watson," the professor drawled, eyes flickering lazily over his students, as if searching for John. "You're wanted in the dean's office. Pack your things and go, Molly will escort you."

The whole class turned to look at John, whispering eagerly as they watched.

Clenching his jaw in a failed attempt to suppress the fiery blush that burned high on the apples of his cheeks and stung the tops of his ears, John hastily tossed his notebook, textbook, and pen into his bag before zipping it up, slinging it over his shoulder, and bolting from the classroom. He'd stormed half way down the hall before he remembered that he was supposed to be escorted by the mousy-haired girl, and that it was probably bad manners to dash ahead. John stopped in his tracks and frowned when he realized that he couldn't remember her name.

"...glad you stopped, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to keep up," she murmured, more to herself than John.

"Sorry," John apologized, looking down sheepishly at his shoes. One of the laces was coming untied. "I just needed to get out of there."

The girl smiled pleasantly at him and nodded once. "Oh, no, it's fine. I understand that. Sometimes the whispers just get to you," she said. "After a while, it does get better. Either that, or you just get better at ignoring it. People whisper about me all the time, and now I barely notice it! I find that sometimes, reading a good book acts as a good distraction, either that or having a nice snack. I'm particularly fond of apples and honey, but you probably wouldn't like that… Oh, listen to me rattle. I'm sorry, I should have stopped a while ago."

John turned and looked at the now-fretting girl and felt the corner of his mouth pull up into a smile. "Hey, it's okay. You're not rattling about too much," he said. "Sometimes it's nice to have someone to talk to."

The girl tilted her head to the side and looked incredulously at him. "You don't have anyone to talk to? Everyone knows your name, John. I thought that everyone would want to talk to you, would want to be your friend?" she asked.

John shook his head. "Nobody wanted to be my friend after news got out about my Clock. So I mostly keep to myself now," he replied.

The girl nodded once more and continued her path down the hallway. "Well, I want to talk to you. It's absolutely horrible the way everyone is treating you. All that change just because a bit of plastic stopped working. It's silly, isn't it? How much emphasis is put on these strange things?" she asked, rattling her Clocked wrist at him. "I mean, if it were up to me, nobody would have them. We'd all be as clueless as the next person. I think it would be exciting and wonderful."

John smiled and trailed after her, watching amusedly as her gestures became more and more animated.

"I mean, wouldn't it be great? We could choose for ourselves who we want to spend the rest of our lives with instead of having it decided for us. I know that our Soulmates are supposed to be the one person in the universe that truly understands us, but if I get someone who doesn't like cats, well, I don't know what I'd do. I have three, you know. Cats, not Soulmates. They're lovely and are always there when I need them…" she stopped for a moment, as if remembering something. "Oh, there I go again. Don't mind me. When I get the opportunity to talk to someone, I tend to talk too much and scare them away. I know it's a bit much, so just say something if I get annoying. It wouldn't be the first time, and I doubt-"

John stopped her mid sentence by raising a hand, a chuckle on his breath. "You're fine, I promise," he said, smiling warmly at her. "And from now on, we both have someone to talk to. I like that you're so… verbose. I'm John. John Watson."

The mousy-haired girl flushed an impressive shade of pink before she squeaked out a reply. "I'm Molly. Molly Hooper. Goodness, I wish we could keep talking, but we're here, and I have more errands to run…"

John nodded. "I'm charmed, Molly. And I mean it, come and talk to me anytime. You at least know where to find me during first hour."

Molly nodded blankly a few times before turning suddenly on her heel to dash off down the opposite hallway. Turning back to the front office door, John took a brief moment to compose himself, wrap shaky fingers around the handle, and finally, enter.

When he was asked to go visit the dean's office, John expected to get a talking to about missing so much school, especially the few classes he'd skipped to have his talk with Harry. What he didn't expect, however, was to see Clara perched comfortably in a plush, wingback chair amidst the maze of secretary desks in the front lounge area.

"Clara?" John asked, frozen half-way through the doorway. "What are you-"

"Got your bag? Good. I'm checking you out for an appointment, Johnny. Your mum sent me over since she had to work," she replied, winking at him as she stood from her chair.

"Appointment? Clara, I'm confu-"

"I'm not sure what time I'll have him back. But I'm sure John has all his work done and ready to be delivered to his professors, don't you Johnny?" Clara continued, turning to face both John and the secretary in charge of signing students in and out.

Momentarily mute, John nodded and bent over to rifle through his bag.

"That's not necessary right now, Mr. Watson," the secretary said, popping her gum loudly between her gleaming teeth. "Just deliver it after school. I'll email your professors. Now go. It's time for my morning coffee break and I don't want to be held up a moment longer."

Eyebrows rising to mesh with his hairline, John allowed himself to be led out of the school by Clara's gentle hand on his back. "Come along, Johnny, we don't want to be late," she chirped.

"Er, yeah. Late. Definitely don't want to be late," John tacked on, stumbling out the door after his sister's Soulmate. "Don't know what I'm late to, but hey, I don't want to be late."

Some fifteen minutes later, Clara and John were seated in a booth at a local diner picking their way through a large plate of chips. "So," John said after a few moments, pausing to clear his throat. "Where are we going, and why don't I know about it?"

Across the table, Clara dropped the chip in her hand and sighed, her smile turning pinched and tired. "We're not going anywhere," she admitted, leaning back against the booth.

John raised an eyebrow at her. "We're not going anywhere?" he parroted, snagging another chip.

Clara sighed. "No. I just needed to get you out of school for the day. I hope that's okay," she said.

"Okay," John said, "but why? You've never done anything like this before."

Clara fidgeted for a moment, picking up her straw wrapper to twist it to shreds between her fingers. "Because there's something I wanted to give you," she said, turning to rummage through her handbag. "But Harry didn't want me to see you. She'd flip if she knew I was here right now."

John sat back and stared at Clara. "Then why are you here? It's unlike you to go against what Harry wants."

Clara shrugged as she pulled a crumpled set of blue papers from her handbag. She attempted to smooth them against the edge of the table before huffing and shoving them unceremoniously at John. "because, this is important. You've suffered enough from her mistake, and though I know this won't make up for what she did, I hope it helps you at least move forward."

"Hope what helps me, Clara? Some crinkled papers will magically make everything okay? I don't think that's how it works," John snapped, crossing his arms.

Clara shook her head. "No, John. This is an option I fould for your future. I wasn't sure if you'd heard about the Bastelns, but I thought it was worth a try."

Slowly, John took the papers from the table and looked through them. The articles were interesting enough, despite being heavily seasoned with medical jargon. Rubbing his forehead, John was suddenly very appreciative of the countless hours he'd spent arched uncomfortably over various medical textbooks, a cup of tea -gone cold- sitting beside him. "The Clock doctors?" John asked after a few, silent minutes. "You're saying I should go and see the Clock doctors?"

"Not quite," Clara answered, shaking her head again. "I'm saying that you should _become_ a Clock doctor. The Basteln Academy is very prestigious, and I bet you could find some answers there about why your Clock froze. I also know that they offer tons of scholarships for new students. My uncle Roger teaches there, so maybe he could talk to you more about it if you're interested."

John sighed and pushed the papers away and stared dejectedly at the half-eaten plate of now soggy chips. "I'll think about it, Clara, ok? Just, right now, not a lot makes sense. And I don't want to rush into a decision I might regret later."

Clara smiled softly at him from across the booth and collected the information she'd gathered. "That's fine, Johnny. I just thought that the program sounded interesting that that you'd like it. I don't want you to feel obligated to go because I told you to. Just promise me that you'll make the decision that's best for you in the end."

John nodded absentmindedly and went back to picking at the chips. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice flat. "I'll make the decision that's best for me."


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry for such a small update, guys. Stupid work and moving house getting in the way of real life. I'm getting ready to start a new, bigger, chapter, and will have two days off, so look for the next update sometime on Thursday. **

**Thanks to all the well-wishers! I'm feeling a little better every day. Now if I could just get my persistent cough to go away... Thanks, too, to all the people who have left such wonderful reviews. I can't wait to hear what you think of what happens next!**

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><p>John spent the better part of the next two weeks attempting to ignore the crumpled, blue papers Clara had given him at lunch. For some reason, the packet seemed to scream at him, drawing his attention to wherever he'd left it. When he set the papers down on his desk, they had shouted his name until he'd crossed the room, picked them up, and read through them again. When he shoved them down the back of his dresser, they had cried out to him until he'd pushed the dresser away from the wall, picked them up, and read through them again. When he balled them up and threw them into his rubbish bin in a fit of frustration, they had screamed at him until he'd snatched them back out, smoothed them as best as he could against the edge of his desk, and read through them again. Half way through the second week, John had had enough and finally called Clara's Uncle Roger to ask him about the Bastelns.<p>

He spent another four days mulling over all the information Uncle Roger had spouted at him. He hated to admit it after what Harry had done, but applying for admission to the Basteln Academy sounded like it would be a good opportunity for him. John had always loved learning about the human body, and he'd always been fascinated by people's Clocks and the stories surrounding them. Thinking back, John admitted that he couldn't remember a time when he hadn't wanted to be a doctor. He was always playing the part, bandaging his friends' cuts and scrapes and suggesting ways to treat symptoms when they came down with colds. Trying to remember when the obsession with all things medical began, John decided that it must have been when he had helped save Harry's dog, Gladstone, when he was six.

It had been during their last week of summer holiday, when, due to the excitement of Harry's ongoing birthday party, the front door had been left open. Naturally, Gladstone had taken the opportunity and ran out while he could. John's mum had noticed half-way through serving Harry's friends cake and ice cream, and had dashed out the door, paced around in circles on their front porch, and screamed Gladstone's name until she was half hoarse.

John's father had taken control then, herding his mother into the family car, Harry buckled up in the back, and had driven off before either he or Susan had remembered their son. Upset, John had climbed on his bike and ridden off the opposite way he'd seen his dad drive, and began calling Gladstone's name. In the end, it had taken three hours of searching and a call from a neighbor halfway down the road. He'd been working in his garage when he heard something crash down into the ravine in his backyard. Going to look, the neighbor had found Gladstone curled up and whimpering among piles of leaves and mud on the bank of a creek.

John arrived at the house ten minutes after his family, only to find them all gathered at the top with their neighbor, gawking at Gladstone and calling his name. Sighing, John let his bike clatter to the ground as he made his way to the only entrance to the ravine he could see. Shuffling forward, John made his way through the trees and shrubs, stepping over fallen limbs as best as he could.

When he made it to Gladstone, John could immediately tell that he was hurt. Despite the fact that his dog was in immense pain and couldn't move, he still did his best to slobber all over John in an enthusiastic attempt to lick him. Carefully, John pulled Gladstone into his arms, cradling him gingerly as he turned to make his way out of the ravine.

It was only when they were settled in at the animal hospital an hour later that anyone noticed that John was splattered with mud, had scraped a long gash along his left knee, and that he was missing one shoe. When his mother asked him about it, John had just shrugged. "I think I lost it when I fell in the mud. Gladstone was really heavy, but I wanted to make sure he was okay first," he replied. Suddenly, very embarrassed at her lack of attention, Susan took John home and helped clean him up.

"Mum," he's said softly as she eased bits of debris from his scraped knee. "I think I want to be a doctor someday."

"What makes you say that?" Susan asked, looking up to meet her son's eyes.

"Because I want to help people when they get hurt. Like the animal doctors are helping Gladstone," John replied.

Susan was still for a moment. "Becoming a doctor is really hard, Johnny," she said, rubbing antibacterial ointment into John's wounds. "You have to go to school for a really long time, and you have to work really hard. Are you sure that's what you want?"

Looking down as his mother wrapped a clean bandage around his knee, John nodded. "I'll work really hard, Mum. I promise.

Smiling up at her son, Susan nodded back. "I know you will, Johnny. You can do anything you put your mind to."

And he had. John had done well in primary school, working hard to learn whatever he could whenever he could. He'd been urged to attend a private school with an outstanding curriculum that partnered with a local university. Harry had been mad, of course, that her baby brother had been accepted to "her school" on scholarship, but she got over it when she saw how fast John was able to grow. Sighing to himself, John sat down at his work desk, took out a pen, and began filling out his application for the Basteln Academy. With the rest of his options seemingly eliminated and graduation looming in the not so far off distance, John figured that it couldn't hurt to at least try.


	7. Chapter 7

**Whoops. I know this is super mega late. But, in my defense, I was working on a Johnlock exchange gift. Posting for that will be on Christmas day, so I hope you'll spare me since new stuff will be out soon! Again, sorry this installment is so short. I really need to reformat these chapters... Hope you all enjoy!**

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><p>It didn't take long for John to discover that Universities like to make you wait. They all demanded that their prospective students submit their applications before the first of December, before making them wait six or seven months to find out if they'd gotten in or not. The Basteln Academy was not like any university John had encountered before, so naturally, they were also different in the amount that they made John wait. Or rather, how long they <em>didn't<em> make John wait.

A bulky package arrived for John with the Basteln Academy logo stamped on the top just a month after John mailed off his application. He did his best to avoid it, knowing full well that it was too large to be a simple rejection. It sat on the kitchen counter for days until John hesitantly shoved it to the back of their coat closet, doing his best to pile Harry's shoes into a small mountain in front of it. When he stood back and observed his handiwork, John was pleased to admit that he couldn't see the package at all. So, with a new spring in his step and a whistle under his breath, John shut the coat closet door and promptly forgot about for all of two days.

Eventually, Harry grey annoyed and dug the parcel out, swiftly dropping it onto the coffee table in front of John. He ended up spending the better part of three hours staring blankly at it, before sighing heavily, snatching it up, and heading out the door towards Clara's house. It was only fair, he thought, that she should be there with him when he opened it since she was the one who had told him about the bloody Academy anyways.

Half an hour later, he was perched awkwardly at the end of the stiff couch in Clara's sitting room, the parcel balancing precariously on his knees. Clara sat down in her chair, opposite of John, and watched intently as he continued to stare dumbfounded at the box.

"Well," she said, crossing her legs and leaning back to sink further into her chair. "Aren't you going to open it?"

John shifted uncomfortably and continued to stare silently at the box.

"Come on, John," Clara urged, gesturing to the package. "Stop avoiding it and open the box already."

John sighed and took a moment to gather himself before he reached down and tore

off the tape holding the top together. Both he and Clara held their breaths as John reached in and pulled out a single, regular sized envelope with his name scribed neatly on the back. With shaky fingers, John finally opened the letter, his eyes rapidly roving over the handwritten words.

"So?" Clara prompted him. "What does it say?"

John blinked a few times at the sheet of paper that felt so heavy in his hands. "Let me read it. Jesus, I can't focus," he replied, squinting at the page.

_Dear John Watson,_

_I am pleased to inform you that your application to the Basteln Academy has been accepted. Because of your academic record and potential, you have also been accepted into the Academy Honors Program._

_Being accepted to the Basteln Academy is quite an accomplishment. Should you choose to accept the challenge, there's no doubt your time at the Academy will have a lasting and positive impact on you. It is also my pleasure to inform you that you are eligible for a few different scholarships, which may pay for some or all of your tuition. _

_The Academic Board of Excellence and I would like to extend an invitation for you and a guest to attend the Acceptance Banquet, scheduled the 31, May, 1996 as the final step to accepting your spot in the Academy. All scholarships will be announced then. _

_Once again, congratulations on your admittance to the Basteln Academy. _

_Sincerely, _

**Roger S. Tranter**

_Roger S. Tranter. _

_Dean of Admissions and Financial Aid._

John's heart was pounding an irregular tattoo in his rib cage when he finally reached the bottom of the letter. "I got in," he breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. "I actually got _in_."

Clara beamed at him and leaned forward to clap him on the back. "I knew you would, Johnny," she said, leaning forward to pluck the letter from his hands. "Never had a doubt in my mind."

After a moment of silence, John leaned back and stared at his sister's Soulmate. "This is actually happening, isn't it? This school thing?" he asked, a pinched expression turning the corners of his mouth down.

Clara nodded at him and squeezed his shoulder. "Yeah it is. You're going to be a Clock Doctor, Johnny," she said. "It may not be what you've always envisioned for yourself, but I think it's a good fit."

Numbly, John nodded and leaned forward to empty the rest of the package, spreading out the various folded brochures and glossy magazines on the coffee table. Countless cheerful faces smiled up at him as he leafed through the information. He knew he should be paying attention to the script on each page, that he should glean useful information about registering, student housing, and different on-campus groups options. He knew he should soak in the important date section, that he should memorize when he had to be where. He knew it was essential to understand the gist of his program, that he should know what classes he was expected to take. It was only when he was walking home that night, the package held loosely in his arms, that John realized that he hadn't absorbed a single thing.

His mother asked about the parcel as soon as he walked through the door, setting a thick slice of chocolate cake down beside a tall glass of milk and a fork. John's response was to slide the package towards her, take the empty seat at the table, and tuck into the cake. His eyes fluttered shut as the first bite slid sweetly across his tongue.

For just a few moments, John's world consisted of nothing more than his mother's chocolate cake. It was good to be able to focus on something so tangible and real for even a small amount of time instead of spending his time and energy juggling the worry and increasing levels of stress the package had brought. John knew that he should be proud for being accepted into the Basteln Academy, for it was something that not many others could do. But as he opened his eyes and watched his mother read his acceptance letter, John couldn't help but wonder if he was doing this because he wanted to, or if it was just a convenient "plan B".

When John became aware of his surroundings again, he was surprised to find his mother with tears welled in her eyes, a hand pressed to her mouth. "Mum?" he called out, "are you okay?"

"Oh, John," she murmured, smiling at him with watery eyes. "I'm just so proud of you. You've worked so hard to get to where you are."

John froze and looked down, staring at the cake. "But I'm not anywhere, mum," he muttered, scraping a smear of icing with the tines of his fork.

Susan Watson couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up from her throat. "You know, of all the crazy things I've heard in this world, I think that you just topped them all," she said.

John's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What?"

"You know, I remember when you first told me you wanted to be a doctor. I was so convinced that you'd change your mind in a few years once you realised how much work it was going to be," she said, turning to pour another glass of milk. "But then you didn't let the work get in the way of your dream. You studied harder than any other kid I know, and you're driven by your desire to help people, not the desire for a job that will make you rich. And now you're here, and you've suffered another hard blow, but just like before, you haven't let it deter you. You've been accepted into a very specialized school of medicine, sweetheart, and it's because you worked hard just like you told me you would when you were six. So, of course I'm proud. And of course you're somewhere. You can't work that hard and be nowhere."

Slowly, John nodded and forked another bite of cake into his mouth. "I guess you're right," he admitted after a handful of slow heartbeats. "I guess it's just hard for me to see it."

Susan smiled and ruffled her son's hair. "Well, you've always been painfully oblivious, John," she teased.

John just laughed and polished off his cake, taking care to clear his plate and kiss his mum before he snagged the package and retired to his room for the night. Sprawled out on his bed with a fresh mindset, John took out the pamphlets and magazines from earlier and read through them again. By the time the kettle boiled, early the next morning, John had memorized all that he needed to know.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello, readers! Here's another (short) update for Standing Still! Sorry it's been a while. My hours are increasing even more at work since a co-worker is leaving us, and I'm still moving house. I'm hoping to have another update posted sometime between now and Monday, but since my internet connectivity is very limited, we'll have to see what happens. **

**Thanks for being so patient with me. I know I'm crap at updating on a schedule. I need to work on that... *ahem* Without further ado, here's the next installment! Cheers!**

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><p>Graduation came and passed in the blink of an eye. One moment, John was knee-deep in revision material, and the next, all of his exams were over. All in all, the whole thing was rather anticlimactic, really. All of his classmates were too busy focusing on their own work to worry about John. Or, more specifically, John's Clock.<p>

His diploma arrived in the mail just a few days later, accompanied by another letter from Clara's Uncle Roger. His mother had been so happy that she'd taken Harry and him out to the little cafe a few blocks away for a celebratory lunch. Harry had been moody throughout the whole meal, and her sour disposition didn't dissipate until long after they'd worked their way through a dozen thumbprint cookies, all filled with blackberry jam.

It was only when he was alone in his bedroom for the night, did John dare to read the unopened letter. Unlike his acceptance letter, this one was a handwritten invitation to tour the school and grounds; an unparallel opportunity for John to have all of his questions answered and to have his curiosity sated. Not wanting the opportunity to go to waste, John dug through his desk, found his stationary set, (a gift for his sixteenth birthday) and penned his response. His letter was sent off in the post the next morning, leaving John to wait for an affirmation.

His journey to the Basteln Academy came just a week later. He arrived at a building that looked like every other generic college that he'd seen. Nothing about the exterior architecture or landscaping made the Academy feel prestigious or selective. As he made his way to the visitor's center, John felt himself relax in the familiar atmosphere. It was easy, he admitted as he sidestepped a few, hurried students, to imagine himself as a student there. But, John was a thorough man, and there was no way he'd allow himself to make a decision (or even to entertain a brief fantasy) without having every question answered and every avenue explored.

Clara's Uncle Roger was a rather severe looking fellow. Not too tall, but very well built with salt and pepper hair, an expensive taste in clothes, and eyes that sparkled with intelligence. He was a quiet man, only seeming to speak when conversation was unavoidable, and every word that escaped his thin lips were heavy with meaning. Roger Tranter was not a man who wasted time, so, as soon as John walked into the visitor's center, he herded John back out and towards one of the main lecture halls with the briefest nod of his head. Miraculously, John followed.

They ended up walking into a half-finished lecture on the basic mechanics of the Clocks. Roger Tranter stalked to the back of the room, sat in one of the empty chairs, and gestured for John to take the vacant seat next to him. As quietly as he could, John scampered up the stairs and sat down, doing his best to follow along with the lecture.

When the class released, some forty minutes later, John watched as the students filed out, one by one, tossing looks at him over their shoulders as they gathered their things. "Well?" Roger drawled once the room was empty, "what did you think?"

"The lecture was fascinating, but I had a hard time understanding everything," John admitted. "Although, I'm sure that with a little bit of background reading, I would understand a lot more."

"That," Roger said after a moment, gesturing vaguely to the front of the lecture hall. "Was one of the third year classes. Given that your attention didn't flab about like a weathervane in a storm, I believe it is safe to say that you'll do just fine here."

John blinked owlishly at Clara's uncle for a minute, attempting to wrap his mind around what had just happened. "R-really?" he stuttered.

The edges of Roger's lips turned up in a small smile. "Oh yes, John Watson. I think the Basteln Academy would be very lucky indeed to have you as a pupil. Now, I know you have questions, so let's retire to my office. When you are finished asking things, I'll have one of the student ambassadors give you a tour of the grounds." Then, just as he'd done before, Roger rose from his chair, stalked down the stairs, and slipped down the hallway towards his office, leaving John to follow quickly behind.

His meeting with Roger didn't take nearly as long as he'd planned, and John found himself being led around by a student ambassador before the lunch hour began. the grounds of the Academy were lovely and green. A vast assortment of different trees lined the many walkways. As John wandered about, a plethora of scholarship pamphlets clutched to his chest, he could barely contain his awe at the beauty surrounding him.

Despite the "generic college" feel that the Basteln Academy gave off, the buildings were all clean lines, warm colors, and large windows. the classrooms felt as inviting as they looked, and the lawns were well manicured. Students were sprawled everywhere, sitting in circles as they revised together, or laid out alone, back curved over thick textbooks, muttering the words to themselves as they re-read section after section in preparation for their end of year exams.

To John, it was as if he saw himself in each of the students spread across campus; he was the student with multi-colored notes spread out in front of them in a semi-circle, he was the student absentmindedly munching on a sandwich as they took a break to look at the clouds, he was the student gulping down coffee at an alarming rate with dark circles sagging under his eyes. Most of what the student ambassador said ended up going in one of John's ears and out the other, the endless dialogue paling vastly in comparison to what the college was saying for itself. At the end of the tour, John shook the ambassador's hand and asked if they'd ever regretted their decision to attend the Academy.

The student ambassador had chuckled uncomfortably and shook their head. "Not even for a second," they said, a grin stretching across their mouth. "This was never my first choice, but it turned out to be the best decision I've ever made. It's hard, I won't lie, but it is one of the most rewarding fields of study. I like my classes, and I love what I'm learning. And knowing that I'll have a job fresh out of school helps, too."

With that response repeating non-stop in his mind, John took his leave, watching the Basteln Academy out of the back of his taxi until it had disappeared somewhere beyond the horizon. Finally turning back around, John flipped through the various scholarship packets Roger had given him for more in-depth information, and started reading. He was already overwhelmed by all the different programs he could apply for to have his tuition paid, and John wanted to make sure he was picking the right ones. If all else failed, he knew that the military would be very interested in helping him complete his training in exchange for four years of his life.

Leaning his head against the cool glass of the taxi's window, John thought, not for the first time, about what military life would be like. His father had served for eight years before he'd met John's mother, and his grandfather had served for two and a half decades before him. The military was already ingrained in John's blood, a long line of excellent soldiers dating back before there were records. Sighing to himself, John couldn't help but wonder if he was supposed to follow in his ancestor's footsteps, or if he should blaze a new path for himself. Closing his eyes, John let the question float around his head. He didn't have to make a decision yet, he still had a few weeks for that. All he needed to do was make his decision by the end of May. That was plenty of time.


	9. Chapter 9

**Oh god. I know, I'm trash. Writer's block is a horrid thing. But I think I've mostly worked through it. Regardless, I'm hoping to have more regular updates. Maybe once a week or so. Here's to hoping 2015 is a good year, filled with a lot of new compete ideas! Cheers!**

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><p>John was nervous. Roger had mailed him earlier that week to congratulate him on his scholarships. All that was left was to actually make his decision and then announce it at the Banquet. In front of hundreds of strangers, Clara, and his family. Running a hand through his hair, John sighed and wondered how his mother would handle the news.<p>

Ever since John's Clock had stopped, his mother had been over the moon about his decision to continue his education. Their house always smelled like various baked good, and was cleaner than it had been in a long time. In her excitement, Susan Watson had even sent her children into town, equipped with their onely credit card, to buy John a new suit for the banquet. As John buttoned his jacket and looked at his reflection in the mirror, he couldn't shake the quilt that had settled heavy and sour in the pit of his stomach.

He was quiet the entire ride there, tapping along to his mother's endless chatter against his leg. She wouldn't stop talking; telling him over and over again just how proud she was of his hard work, of his acceptance, of his perseverance and tenacity even when things had gone wrong. Harry was even more moody than normal, continually glowering at him in the side mirror. Shifting awkwardly in his seat, John turned to look out the window and wished, not for the first time, that he could have made this trip alone.

There were a surprising amount of new students congregated in the Student Center's lobby, young men and women clinging to their friends, families, and in one case, their spouse. Clara had joined them immediately, flouncing over to greet Harry with a chaste kiss, smiling as she ruffled John's hair. John's mother chattered pleasantly as her son fixed his hair and fidgeted in his new suit. Before he could calm down, they were being ushered into the large ballroom and urged to take their seats.

The ballroom was beautifully decorated, the tables covered in pale ivory with hunter green trim. There was a small stage, complete with a podium and thick, velvet curtains that were such a dark shade of green they were almost black. Along the back wall, just a little bit away from their tables, was a series of tables piled high with enough food to feed a small army.

John was startled when a young woman took the seat next to him, his eyes slightly widening when she firmly stuck her hand out to him and introduced herself as Camille Beauregard. Dazed, John shook her hand gently and did his best to pay attention as she rattled on and on about how her parents and her parents' parents had attended the Basteln Academy, how she was, naturally, grandfathered in with a full scholarship. John vaguely remembered thinking that she was a right snob before his attention was snagged as Clara's Uncle Roger gave the welcoming speech.

They were to enjoy their lunch first, each table dismissed one at a time as to not overwhelm the servers. Camille was still rattling on about her breeding, and Harry was glowering sourly at him from her spot across the table. She hadn't had anything for breakfast, and was no doubt blaming John for the fact that she was irritable and light headed. Clara smiled reassuringly at him, and his mother was engaged in a conversation with Camille's mother, no doubt the pair of them sharing their pride over their respective children. Reaching for his water glass, John sighed audibly as his fingers wrapped against the cool glass. Raising the glass to his lips, he sipped uneasily at his drink, eyes fluttering shut as the water slipped down his throat. He was nervous, there was no use denying it.

"John," Clara said, reaching over to shake his arm, jostling him from his thoughts. "Come on, it's our turn to go to the buffet."

Mechanically, John rose from his spot, pushed his chair in, and followed his family up to the buffet table. He stared at the spread for a few, lengthy moments before picking up a plate and loading it with everything he could fit. When they returned to their seats, Harry was smiling softly and John's mother looked as if her face would split in two due to how large her smile had spread. Quietly, John tucked in to his meal and prayed that his family would still be happy with him after his scholarship was announced.

It happened sooner than John expected; some of the families were still working through their plates with Roger took the stage again, the Dean of Students and various faculty members standing alongside him. Roger tapped on the microphone a few times to make sure it was on and running correctly before shuffling the small stack of papers he had with him. "As I'm sure you all know," he began, smiling at the room, "here at the Basteln Academy, we have a history of greatness. If you look around you, today, you are surrounded by the newest generation of great students. I know I speak for the Academy when I say that we all cannot wait to see what great achievements you will achieve.

Now I know that sometimes, greatness is impossible to achieve on one's own, and sometimes, we need some help to reach the next level. Today I'm pleased to announce that I have forty-three scholarships to award to our fifty-seven new students in the hopes that it will help aid their journey here at the Academy. So now, without further ado, I will announce the names of each of our students followed by any scholarships they might have earned. When I say your name, I'd like for each student to come up on stage so we can properly welcome you and hand you your scholarship. Let's get started with Thomas Avery…"

John watched as a small boy near the front leapt from his chair and scrambled up on stage, and shook the Dean's hand. "Mr. Avery has been awarded a Presidential scholarship, renewable at every semester, to aid in his studies here at the Academy," Roger continued, pausing to shake the boy's hand, taking care to make sure he had a firm grip on his scholarship papers before he let go. "The next student I'd like to welcome to the Basteln Academy is Camille Beauregard…"

And so, John sat at the edge of his seat and watched as his classmates were called one by one to the stage to receive their scholarships, every one of them smiling as they were announced and everyone clapped for their achievements. His fingers gripped and twisted the napkin in his lap, and his right leg bounced quickly up and down. His mother reached over and placed one of her hands over his knee, a soft smile on her face. "Calm down, Johnny. You'll be fine," she said, winking at him. John smiled uneasily in return and reached to gulp at his water, polishing off the glass before he shakily set it down. All too soon, Roger was calling his name, and he felt his body rise from his chair and gravitate towards the stage.

His stomach was lodged firmly in his throat and his heart was beating so fast that John was concerned it would give out on him. His hands were clammy and sweaty as he weakly shook the Dean's hand. He held his breath as Roger handed him his papers before ushering him to join his fifty-six classmates in a line stretched across the front of the stage. "Mr. Watson has been awarded a very special scholarship from the Royal Northumberland Fusiliers. In exchange for his service in the RAMC following the completion of his degree, they have decided to grant Mr. John Watson their only full-ride scholarship this year to aid his studies here at the Academy."

It took every ounce of self control for John not to wince as the rest of the families in the ballroom applauded for them. Looking out over the faces, so many of his classmate's loved ones looked proud, ecstatic for whomever they were there with. When John finally looked at his family, he felt his heart sink. Clara's jaw had dropped and she looked as if she'd been slapped. Harry's content smile had been replaced by the angriest contortion of a frown he'd ever seen her muster. And his mother… John couldn't bear to look at his mother more than necessary, for Susan Watson looked as if her entire world had crumbled before her, her eyes glistening with unshed tears boring sharply into John's with disbelief.

After a few moments, John and his classmates were excused from the stage and allowed to return to their seats. Camille wasted no time, latching on to his arm as soon as he was within reach. "An army man!" She squaled, linking her arm through John's. "Oh, how fascinating! All the girls love a man in uniform!"

John grimaced and tried to shrug his way out of her grip. "Yeah, that's exactly the reaction I was going for. Thanks," he grumbled, doing his best to weave around the tables.

"I wonder why they gave you the full ride, though. I didn't think the military would do that," Camille commented.

John clenched his jaw. "My whole family has been involved in the military. I'm just doing my duty. And all that," he replied, gripping the back of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. Hastily, he sat down and picked up his fork. Avoiding his family's stares, he focused on pushing his now soggy vegetables around his plate. "The buffet was nice, wasn't it?" he murmured, chancing a look at Clara.

"Lovely," she deadpanned. "Absolutely _lovely_."

"I thought so too. In fact, I liked it so much, I think I'm going to go back for seconds," he rambled, shooting up stiffly from his chair.

"I'll go with you," Clara said, stepping around the table to snatch John's arm. "The cake looked good and I want to see about getting a cuppa."

She wasted no time in dragging John up to the buffet table, her fingernails digging painfully into his wrist. Frowning, John allowed himself to be led, silently accepting his fate.

"How could you?" Clara hissed, picking up a plate while glaring at John. "After everything we've done for you, how could you just _throw it away like that_?"

John rolled his eyes and stood still. "I'm not throwing anything away, Clara," he sighed, staring at the stack of pristine, white plates.

Clara turned to gape at him. "You are so, John! You're throwing your life away because you don't feel you deserve it. I know you, and I know the way you think, John Watson, and this decision of yours is a _mistake_."

John glared at his sister's Soulmate. "Clara, just stop, please? It's my choice, not yours. It's my life, not yours. So please, just leave it. What's done is-"

John was expecting Clara's anger, but he was not expecting the hot burn of pain that seared across his cheek when she slapped him. the whole ballroom fell silent as everyone turned to watch.

"Right then," John murmured, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "Thanks for that," he spat, pushing past Clara to exit the ballroom. The doors clattered loudly behind him, the finality of the lock latching driving him to move forward. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd walked a mile and a half to the nearest train station, bought a ticket, and plopped into one of the uncomfortable platform chairs to wait for the train to take him home.

When he got home, the house was dark, and the front door was still locked. Digging through the various potted plants on the porch, John found the spare key, unlocked the house, and went straight for his bedroom. As soon as the door shut behind him, John was in motion. He dragged out his pair of old suitcases and methodically emptied his set of drawers, his wardrobe, and packed as many books into his backpack as he could. When he was satisfied with the state of his belongings, John shouldered his backpack, picked up his suitcases, and walked out. He made sure all the lights were off and the front door was locked. He deposited the spare key back into the pot he found it in, turned, and walked away down the road.


End file.
